Page 34 of Gallant Waif
“Not quite all, I think.” He glanced down at the dress she was wearing. “I did warn you.”
At that she started to struggle again, but he effortlessly held her arms behind her and then held them in the grip of one large strong hand. She was pressed hard against him, chest to chest. She could feel his heart thudding. He seemed to be breathing rather harder than usual.
“And now, Miss Katherine Farleigh,” he said softly, his breath warm against her ear, “will you agree to accept these clothes from my grandmother or not?”
“No, and you cannot make me!”
“Oh, no?” His free hand went behind her and to her horror she felt his hand tug free a button at her neck. He looked at her, and one long, strong finger gently stroked the soft skin of her nape. Kate stared defiantly back, struggling to maintain her composure, willing her body not to respond to the delightful sensation.
He undid a second button and waited, stroking, circling, smoothing her skin. His eyes darkened. His body seemed to surround her and it took every bit of Kate’s self-discipline not to lean into him. And he knew it, the beast, she told herself, desperately resisting the tiny seductive caresses. His tactics were utterly unfair, totally despicable, Kate decided, so she tried to kick him. Her legs were restrained by the pressure of his powerful thighs. He reached for the third button, but Kate had had enough.
“Yes, all right, then, I accept the clothing,” she snapped, adding under her breath, “You big bully!”
He heard her and chuckled. “This time, Miss Farleigh, I believe brawn has won the day.” He released her and stood back triumphantly. “You’d better mean it,” he added, “for if you defy me once more—”
“You need not go on about it so—I gave you my word,” she muttered crossly.
“So you did.” His eyes mocked her anger.
Kate glared at him, wishing she could think of something—anything to wipe that infuriating grin off the wretched man’s face. “Get out of my room,” she ordered.
His grin grew wider. “Sore loser,” he said softly, and left.
In a whirl of temper Kate flung off her old clothes and donned new ones—new underclothing, the soft, warm, dove-grey dress she had liked so much and a grey spencer, smartly frogged with black and gold braid. The sensual pleasure of the fine new clothes did nothing to alleviate her annoyance with Jack Carstairs. He had no right to force her to accept them…after all, she was entitled to choose what she wore, wasn’t she? She wasn’t his slave or anything, was she? If they truly did come from Lady Cahill, she supposed she had no moral qualms about accepting them. But whether she did so or not washerchoice—not his!
Oh, but the man was infuriating—always sticking his nose in where it was neither needed nor wanted! She kicked her old clothes into a heap in the corner, wishing they were Jack Carstairs instead.
A short time later there was a knock on the door.
“What do you want now?” she exploded. There was a brief silence.
“If you please, miss,” said Millie’s hesitant voice, “Mr Carstairs sent me up to fetch the rest of the things to go to the parson.”
Kate handed the bundle to Millie and watched as the girl took the last remaining remnants of her old life.
It was not such a bad thing, she realised suddenly. Her old clothes had carried old associations—and none of them good. Some had been given to her after she’d escaped from the French—reluctant charity to a disgraced woman. Some dated from her girlhood before they all went to war. All of them were dyed black with grief. She had put those times behind her now, and was building a new life. The new clothes were symbolic of that.
She smoothed down the long woollen sleeve of the grey spencer. Never had she worn such lovely, fashionable, expensive clothing. She noticed Millie’s sidelong glance as she did so and smiled a little ruefully.
Millie grinned back at her. “Aye, “tis sad to lose old clothes—some seem like old friends, don’t they, miss? But, well, it’s a beautiful jacket, miss. And all the rest. The old lady sent them, I hear.” There was a question in her voice, and Kate hastened to reassure her.
“Yes, Lady Cahill. It was very kind of her.”
Millie nodded. “Ah, well, that be all right, then.” She paused. “Like a cup of tea, miss?”
Kate hesitated.
“It’s all right,” said Millie, reading her thoughts accurately. “Mr Carstairs is off up the Bull.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“The Bull, miss—the Bull and Boar Tavern. He’ll not be back till late, I reckon.”
“Oh, well, then, in that case, yes, I’d love one.”
Later that evening Kate donned one of her new nightgowns and slipped into bed, shivering. The nights were getting very cold—soon she’d have to think about heating a brick to take to bed with her. Or perhaps using that bedwarmer she’d found. She burrowed down into the bedclothes, enjoying the feel of the soft linen nightgown against her skin. She had taken out the silk one and looked at it for a moment of two, then put it wistfully away. She could not imagine a time when she might have a use for it. Such a garment was not meant as clothing to warm a girl at night—rather, it aimed to warm a man…
For the first time in months, Kate thought of Henri and the things he had done to her in the privacy of his tent. She had not disliked them…but any pleasant memories had been driven out by the realisation that she was not wed to him after all, that he was a stranger who’d lied to her, tricked her, taken marital rights illicitly. And she’d felt used and angry and guilty…
